He hadn’t driven fifty yards when the massive explosion behind him rocked the old truck violently and sent brick and stone tumbling into the alley just behind them. A giant cloud of dust was visible in the rearview mirror, rolling toward them.
He smiled over at Concasseur. Ian had created the thirty bombes from ten-pound bricks of the high explosive Semtex, a malleable substance that made it ideal for unusual desserts such as this one. Each Semtex star had been coated with red marzipan. The “candle” fuses extended down into the desserts’ centers. There he had placed the igniters and two ounces each of the explosive yellow liquid called nitroglycerin, which detonated the Semtex.
“Take a left,” Concasseur said. “Let’s have a look.”
Hawke turned into the street leading to the cul-de-sac where the infamous mansion of murderers had once stood. The members of this organization had been responsible for Anastasia’s imprisonment and torture, her near execution, and the subsequent attempted assassinations of his son, Alexei. The killers, kidnappers, and torturers now lay beneath a massive pile of smoking debris, with billowing black smoke climbing into the night sky, illuminated by hot licks of hellish shades of red and yellow flame.
“My compliments to the chef,” Hawke said to Concasseur, throwing the catering van into reverse.
Forty-six
Washington, D.C.
Hard rain beat against the windows of the Oval Office. The foul weather matched the mood of the people gathered there perfectly, except for one. President Tom McCloskey was oblivious to weather of any kind, owing to countless hours in the saddle where the Great Plains meet the Rockies, the front range of Colorado. His equanimity and grace under pressure had been a big part of his appeal to voters looking for reassurance in deeply troubled times.
The president of the United States leaned back in his chair and settled his shiny black cowboy boots onto the Labrador retriever, a life-sized leather footstool version of his favorite dog. The room had changed since Hawke’s last visit. During President Jack McAtee’s tenure in office, nautical was the theme: marine art, ship models, and naval artifacts. Now, it was the Old West. Remington sculptures of bucking broncos, paintings of Yosemite by Thomas Moran, and the famous The Last of the Buffalo by Albert Bierstadt gave the room a rustic quality shared by the current inhabitant. He’d also retrieved and returned the bust of Winston Churchill a previous White House tenant had sent unwisely and unceremoniously back to England.
“Hell,” President Tom McCloskey said, clasping his big hands behind his head, “I feel like I’m at war with a phantom.”
“Damnedest adversary I’ve ever seen, Mr. President,” the Pentagon’s Charlie Moore said. “And I thought I’d seen everything.”
“Or not seen,” Anson Beard, the secretary of defense, whispered under his breath to Alex Hawke, seated next to him on the sofa near the fireplace. The president heard him.
“That’s right, Anson, not seen.”
“Sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to-”
McCloskey continued, “I’m reading a book called The Ghost in the Machine by a guy named Koestler. I recommend it. It’s about mankind’s relentless march toward self-destruction. Koestler believes that as the human brain has grown, it’s been built upon earlier, more primitive brain structures-the ghosts in the machine-and these can overpower higher, logical functions. The ghosts are responsible for hate, anger, and all the other self-destructive impulses. You see where I’m going with this?”
He could tell by the looks on their faces that they hadn’t a clue.
“I’m saying that these AI machines, whatever you wish to call them, are built by humans. They are products of our brains. And so our ghosts are in those goddamn machines, too. Only a few million times smarter. So how do we fight them? Admiral Moore?”
“We have a new enemy. Cybercombat. Can’t see it, can’t hear it, can’t find it. Like a ghost, but that’s too nice a word for it. Ghosts can be friendly. Phantom ’s a better word for it. An evil presence you can feel but not see. And that’s just what this is. Hell, I could send the USS George Washington — hell, send the whole carrier battle group-after it, and this damn phantom would just shut our whole military operation down electronically. I’d have a carrier dead in the water, an entire aircraft fighter wing sitting on the deck totally useless.”
Brick Kelly said, “Could be worse than that, Charlie. You could have one of your own submarines turn against you and fire a spread of torpedoes at your own damn carrier, like that incident in the Caribbean.”
“Nothing would surprise me anymore, Brick. I’m beyond that now.”
There were murmurs of assent from those gathered. Vice President David Rosow, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Charlie Moore, CIA Director Kelly, Secretary of Defense Beard, MI6 Director Trulove, and Alex Hawke were scattered about the room on various sofas and chairs.
“You gentlemen understand the implications of what you just heard?” McCloskey asked. “The entire ‘arsenal of democracy’ has just been rendered entirely useless. Anybody besides me consider that a fairly serious problem?”
The Joint Chiefs chairman, Moore, spoke first.
“Mr. President, as you know, the Pentagon has recently concluded that computer sabotage coming from another country constitutes an act of war. For the first time, the door is open for the U.S. military to respond to such attacks using traditional military force. More will be declassified in coming months. But I will tell you we now regard this as a changing world, one where a hacker can pose as significant a threat to U.S. nuclear reactors, public transportation in the air and on the ground, or, let’s say pipelines, as a hostile country’s military.”
McCloskey lit a black cheroot, inhaled, thought a moment, and expelled a plume of blue smoke. He reached down to rub the head of his dog, Ranger, asleep on the rug beside him. Still looking fondly at his pet, the president continued.
“Charlie’s right. What we’re saying is this. If you shut down our power grid, maybe we will put a multiple warhead ICBM down one of your smokestacks. That about sum it up, David?”
Vice President Rosow got to his feet and began pacing the room. When he spoke, it was with his trademark candor and no-nonsense demeanor.
“Let’s just skip the chase and cut right to the goddamn outcome, okay? As you all know, two days ago we had an electronic tsunami in America. A rolling blackout that came ashore at Santa Monica, hit Los Angeles, and then swept across the whole damn country. Denver, Chicago. All the way to New York City. The power grid was down in New York for exactly sixty minutes, then, at the stroke of midnight, pop, the lights all came back on. Now, that tells me something. It tells me somebody is dicking around with us. Having himself a little fun at our expense. Not to mention our country. No goddamn hacker dicks with America, gentlemen, and gets away with it.”
McCloskey nodded in agreement. “At least not on my watch, anyway. And I’m not putting up with it. We’re not leaving this room until we figure out a way to put an end to this-whatever the hell it is-phantom-once and for all. I welcome your ideas.”
“Whoever they are, they’re probing, pushing us around, Mr. President,” Rosow said. “Just to show the rest of the world they can do it. It all began with that Russian sub in the Caribbean. The tragedy up at Fort Greely, the slaughter caused by that TGV train in London.”
“No question about it, David. Somebody, somewhere, has gotten hold of technology we can’t even begin to understand, much less match. You boys know what a ‘rat lab’ is? That’s what we used to call ’em back at MIT. Meant a room full of people ‘running around thinking.’ We got every rat lab in America working on this and they haven’t come up with squat. That’s why I invited Sir David Trulove of MI6 over here. He and Commander Hawke have been talking to artificial intelligence scientists over at Cambridge. I think they have some answers for us. Sir David?”